One down, p.1
One Down, page 1
ONE DOWN
DIANA WILKINSON
To Neil, my crossword buddy in crime
CONTENTS
Prologue
Sunday, May the Third
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Three Years Previously
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Three Months Before May the Third
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
May the Third
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
One Year Later
Chapter 104
Acknowledgments
More from Diana Wilkinson
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
The Murder List
PROLOGUE
It’s been a long time coming, but May third is finally here.
I lean against the fence. Count down from ten. I whisper in a soothing rhythm. Ten, nine, eight, seven… It’ll take me ten seconds to reach the front. That’s how long it takes.
I look down. The pitted driveway, its yawning chasms of neglect, tells me off. Slovenly reproof of my disinterest. A rampaging weed, thick, lush with sharply pointed talons, taunts with a strangulated grip as it waves at me through a crack. I yank it out, fling it aside but not before a prickly coating sears my skin and leaves an angry rash across my hand. My eyes squeeze against the pleasant pain.
I pick my way across the rotting asphalt. Silver Birch, a once majestic home, towers above me. Its carcass has been greedily devoured, deboned by filthy maggots. Beneath the darkened porch, I catch my breath, then nudge the door ajar, flinching as it creaks a rusty welcome.
A vein pulses in my neck. I exhale heavily, the sound like the hiss of air from a deflating tyre, and step inside. A slather of sweat coats my neck, my forehead, and I wipe a palm across my brow before I start a slow ascent.
The stairs creak, they’re familiar, the fourth and sixth risers groaning in irritation despite my attempts at stealth. My damp fingers slide along the wooden rail as I creep upwards. I pause halfway, as my insides rumble with increasing wrath. Volcanic fury builds as mad compulsions knock back the measured rationale.
A few more steps and I’m on the landing, the holding cell between Flats B and C. The airless space suffocates my thoughts, and my body tenses as I turn the key. The unoiled hinges groan.
Inside the flat, the solemn silence of the stairwell fades, replaced by scuffle noises, agitated movement, puffs of rasping breath. I follow the sounds with gentle tread, and through a crack in the bedroom door, take in the scene. All as I hoped.
It’s hard not to smile.
Blood spatters appear as aftershocks, and dot my skin and clothes like measles. I fall backwards as her eyes spring open on hearing the crack.
I gulp, swallow down the nausea, and put a hand across my mouth. My tongue has a bitter tang, a metallic taste. But I keep my eyes locked on hers. I think she’s trying to speak. I lean closer.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Hmm.’ She giggles, in conspiratorial mirth, and replies, ‘What’s the noise?’
She doesn’t scream, although I wonder why. The crack was like a crash of thunder. I’d expect a reflex yelp at least. But she slips away into unconsciousness, and thanks me with her glassy eyes. It’s gratitude enough.
Claret-coloured plasma seeps like soft-boiled yolk across the bedding, an Ebola flow of death. It’s quite startling.
I freeze when I hear a phone but puff out my lips, release the air, when I remember it’s the timer on my mobile. Ten minutes is up. I need to move, get out before the cavalry arrives. I spin, check behind me. Boo. I jump. But there’s no one there.
I check out the scene, the final curtain. It was a convincing script if I say so myself, and the players have more than lived up to expectations. But I’ve one more thing to do, before I tidy up, clean my hands, and wash my face. I glance down at my black top, smug at the forward planning, its darkness mingling with the bloodied scarlet hues.
I gently unfold her fragile fingers, rigid to the touch, and thread the implement inside them. It’ll be enough. Shakespeare at his best.
I move away, and by the door unlace my trainers, peel off my socks, and slip them in a bag. My feet are cold, numb like climbers’ feet. But the pallid whiteness is clean. Pure. No trace of guilt.
I skip lightly back down the stairs. In the hall I prick my ears, picking up a restless spirit. I hear ghosts laughing through the flimsy walls, their skeletal fingers beckoning. It takes a second to realise the gentle hum is mine.
Outside, I pull out my phone, check the time, look heavenwards. Thank God it’s all over.
My bare feet weave left and right, back the way I came, playing dodge with the thorny weeds that laugh through the fissures. They’ll not catch me out again.
Up against the fence, I take out my socks and shoes and prepare to drive away.
Once out on Brewer’s Hill, I don’t look back.
SUNDAY, MAY THE THIRD
1
AMANDA
A metal bundle of twigs for a tree (6,5)
I’m fast, flipping across the cryptic crossword puzzle grid, my terror ratcheting up with each conundrum. The clues could be random, a sneaky theme weaved through the teasers like fine thread in tapestry, delicate, subtly telling a mystifying tale. Perhaps it’s some smart-arse cruciverbalist, a crossword-puzzle setter, new on board with worth to prove. Someone I’ve never met. But I know that’s not true.
Sweat globules bobble round my neck, pale beads of panic. They tell me otherwise. Who am I trying to kid? I’m the target of an online stalker, a word-troll maniac, who’s been methodically toying with my sanity for six months now, give or take.
My bare feet slap against the hardwood floor as I get up and circle the lounge. By the window, my gaze dips from the London skyline with its smoky early-morning outline to the dense communal undergrowth below. A rampaging weed-infested wilderness is steadily advancing, a determined army, towards the fortifications of Flat A, soon to cover the walls like a serial killer’s lair, the rendered surfaces invisible to the naked eye.
My arms circle my upper body, a futile hug of comfort, until a shiver pulls me round and I slump back into the chair, biro poised and chattering against my teeth.
Paranoia grips with every new clue. The Christmas Day Giant Crossword Puzzle is full of seasonally themed clues and answers: mince pies, crackers, plum pudding, Noel, stuffing and cranberry jelly… words evoking festive magic with simplistic formula, but for one day only.
Perhaps today the subject is death.
Each morning as I sip my coffee, from the lofty heights of Flat C, Silver Birch, I wait for my neighbour to wake up. Get ready for work. On autopilot, I listen for movement beneath the floorboards, of Flat B coming to life. But today there is no welcoming death rattle from the pipes. The daily violence that shakes the building like the precursor to a seismic earthquake, and heralds my neighbour’s shower time, is eerily missing.
Agaves is my nei
Today the silence screams, a loud reminder of my absent lover who has gone away for the weekend. I miss the juddering crescendo of metal which then crashes to a halt as the power shower springs into action and spikes the frustrated fantasies which grip my thoughts daily. I imagine Agaves’ tanned and rippling biceps as I listen to the cascading deluge. But today the comforting sounds of life are absent, replaced by the morgue-like atmosphere and a biting fear.
I peek at the crossword puzzle through slit eyes and carry on, my morning sourdough breath gaining strength as my gut gurgles and churns. On my scribble pad, I scrawl, checking, reading through my thoughts as I study the clues, the tiny equations of perfection.
‘Keep a pad close, don’t deface the newspaper. That’s sacrilege.’ Nathan’s voice would join me in our speed of calculation. Solving the daily puzzle became a gladiatorial battle between us, fought to the bitter end. But now I face the clues alone.
So far today, each clue is linked to death and menace. And to me.
The bare walls echo my laugh, a nervy noise of disbelief as the sound, tinged with mania, bounces back at me.
‘Alcohol does that, Manda. It feeds paranoia.’ Nathan would admonish me with holy certainty that my psychosis was down to drink.
The clues have Nathan’s stamp all over them. Dark humour laced with payback. I stare at the words, swivelling the pad on the glass top table, and swallow the answers. They’re all correct, no ambiguity possible. But I can’t be positive he is today’s setter.
The anonymous puzzle setters at the London Echo newspaper are famous in a Banksy way, enigmatic, invisible yet brilliant in their cryptic clue construction. If the setter today for the newspaper is Adnam – my nickname, Manda, backwards, a phoney pseudonym – I know him only too well. My husband. But I’m not certain it is him. A ghost seems to be communicating through the words and perhaps it’s someone else. It could be anyone. Maybe someone I’ve never even met.
I go back to the first clue. The other clues so far might just be random, imagined menace. That’s how the police would see it if the worst happens. No one would believe me. Delusions of an addled mind.
But A metal bundle of twigs for a tree (6,5) is specific. My eyes flick towards the window. A light breeze is tickling the drooping branches and heart-shaped leaves of the tree outside which stands sentry in our front garden. A rich green canopy is slowly growing back after the winter frosts. It covers the light silvery bark which shimmers in the sunlight.
The clue is easy to solve.
A metal, six letters, is silver. Birch is another name for a bundle of twigs. The whole relates to a tree. The answer is silver birch. It comes easily, because I remember me and Nathan toying with a possible clue for the name of our building when we moved in. He told me that birching had been used as punishment in schools and prisons up until the mid-nineteenth century.
‘Bundles of twigs were secured and used to punish schoolboys and prisoners on their bare buttocks.’ I can hear Nathan’s knowledgeable pronouncement in my head. Outside of work and setting puzzles for a living, his hobby is constructing cryptic clues for names. People’s names. Place names. Names of foods, countries, animals. And names of trees and plants. The day we moved in, Silver Birch was already tagged with possibilities.
The next few clues take me longer to solve, until I sense the theme. My brain speeds up, soon racing headlong like a runaway train.
Two fools one country for murder (13)
The word murder jumps out before I get the answer. Another word for fool is ass. Two fools could be ass followed by another ass. One is often denoted by the single letter i and another word for country could be nation. Murder is the whole thing and assassination is the answer.
Nathan enjoyed teaching me, imparting knowledge like a schoolmaster hungry for adulation. That’s who he was.
‘One bit of the clue relates to the whole thing. Like in a quick crossword puzzle. The next section, often following a comma, gives you clues as to how to make certain you have the right answer.’ Nathan was patient, keen to prise me from the bottle that sang with heady promises and nearly cost my life. But the images of death are never far away.
I carry on, my mind twisting this way and that as my eyes fixate on the grid. Silver Birch is where I live. Can assassination be just another random answer? Zigzag sparks zap around the edges of my vision, and warn of a building migraine.
I’m certain that the clues are linked, and sending me a threat.
2
AMANDA
If I lived in an airy open plan apartment with sleek lines and marble tiles, and wrap-around balconies framed by shining glass, the silence surely wouldn’t be as terrifying. But trapped inside Silver Birch, with its solid masonry shell, I feel the waft of vengeful ghosts passing through the walls.
Silver Birch, the name given to the property that houses three separate flats, reminds me of Cerberus, the hound of Hades, whose three monstrous heads guard the gates of the Underworld to prevent the dead from leaving.
The trio of snarling properties within Silver Birch share one heart, with its tangle of clogged-up arteries that filter amenities through the robust but cracking torso. Our garden is the serpent tail that swishes from the creature’s thunder thighs. A hissing mesh of weeds, thorns, and wild abandon that chokes the healthy growth.
I imagine our majestic property in its infancy before it was christened with the name of the burgeoning tree that dominates the front. Built over one hundred years ago, for the landed gentry if rumour is to be believed, the structure has grand but asymmetric form. A central staircase once linked three sprawling levels. It reared up on the left-hand side of the main entrance, winding its way up several floors, before developers, sometime in the seventies, had it truncated on the landing shared today by Flats B and C. Inside Flat C, the narrow stairs creak on upwards towards a skylight. Sun beams through by day, stars twinkle by night and when the heavens open, rain seeps through the joints. This is our flat. The flat that belongs to my husband, Nathan, and me.
Flat B was carved out into an eclectic mix of shapes and sunk into the underbelly of Flat C, which became its loftier neighbour. The conversion into three flats was higgledy-piggledy to say the least. Cracks, crevices and crooked edges abound, and in one corner of our bathroom is a creaking floorboard, so loosely fitted that I can slip it aside and peek through a tiny gap into the kitchen of Flat B which lies directly underneath.
